


hopelessly a lover (and that will be the death of me)

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: “If I had loved him, Juliet would still be alive. Do you still hate me for it?”Only the sound of the music inside reaches them, quiet and comforting, before he replies softly, “I don’t think I hate you anymore, Capulet.”OR Rosaline is so good at pretending to be in love, she even fools Benvolio.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to quickly start by thanking everyone for their love and their support on my other fics, it blows my mind every time. I'm terrible at replying to review (hello social anxiety my old friend) but all your comments and kudos mean the world to me! *mwah*
> 
> Disclaimer: I love Wade Briggs very much and I am very very attracted to him but, damn, does the guy have the most awkward forced smile ever. Sorry Wade, you're still cute.
> 
> Title from Milk and Honey, as always it seems.

“His smile is most… peculiar.”

Rosaline snorts a laugh at her sister’s remark, and shakes her head a little. Livia never was one to keep her words to herself, especially not in the comfort of their bedroom. A few moments of peace before tonight's ball finds them in Juliet’s old room, laughing and gossiping together like they used to as young maids. Still, Rosaline didn't think her sister capable of bringing up the Montague so casually into the conversation.

“His smile is perfectly normal, dear sister.”

“It is not! He always smiles like…” Livia imitates said smile, forced and pained-looking. Rosaline cannot help but laugh, for it is not Benvolio's smile her sister is portraying - or, at least, not his most genuine one, but the one curling up his lips when he only pretends to be blissful. Rosaline is not surprised that her sister is unable to tell the difference, but startled at her own knowledge of Benvolio's smiles. 

“Do not be mean, dear sister,” she replied with a gentle slap to Livia’s shoulder. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to be as beautiful as you are.”

Livia snorts. “Are you  _ defending _ him?”

Rosaline scoffs at the ridiculousness of such a question. “No. Attack his character to your heart’s content. But we know better than to mock one’s physique.”

Her sister squints at her for a moment, as if ready to reply something. But a servant knocks on the door before Livia can add anything, and they soon find themselves too busy dressing up for the ball to keep the conversation going. Not that Rosaline minds particularly. Whatever her sister had on her mind, something tells Rosaline she wouldn’t have liked it.

She stands by what she said - their mother raised them not to mock things people cannot control. And if Benvolio can control his foul character, there is little to be done about his poor acting skills and how he looks like he swallowed a particularly bitter lemon every time he has to pretend feelings for her. He got better along the way, good enough to fool all of Verona, but Livia is right. His face doesn’t look particularly pleasant when he tries too hard.

Not that it looks pleasant otherwise. Rosaline doesn’t understand how such a man could be so popular with the ladies, what with his bad temper and disagreeable character. How anyone would want to spend time in his company, let alone enjoy it, is a mystery to Rosaline. And the fact that she has to do just that only adds salt to the already sore wound.

“Paris does have a nice smile,” Livia adds after long minutes of silence.

Rosaline looks above her shoulder as her sister, her gasp of surprise turning into a grunt as the servant tugs on the laces of her corset. Now that the Count is back on his feet and back to Verona’s society, he is the centre of the attention of many an unwed maiden, but it is only Livia he has eyes for. Their uncle is delighted at the idea, of course - getting rid of his other niece and getting a nice sum of money out of it, how couldn’t he be? - and so is Livia. Rosaline has never seen her sister so radiant than since Count Paris officially asked to court her. She deserves this happiness, even if Rosaline envies her the freedom to give her heart to whoever she so wishes.

“Paris also have a nice estate,” Rosaline teases. “Methink you are not ready for such responsibilities, sweet sister.”

Livia throws a rag at her from across the room, but it falls a few feet away from Rosaline and makes her laugh. She pokes her tongue out at her sister before focusing back on her outfit and the maid pulling her hair up into a complicated updo. She chooses a simple necklace to match the dress, one Benvolio bought her at the market two weeks ago. What Benvolio lacks in feelings, he makes up in trinkets and little gifts. Jewelries and books and flowers now scattered around her room as token of his (fake) love and making her smile at the ridiculous of the situation.

Livia distracts her from her thoughts by taking her hand, like they did when they were little girls, and pulls her out of the room. Already, the soft music comes from downstairs. Guests will arrive soon, but for now their aunt is simply running everywhere and yelling at every passing servant to make everything perfect, while their uncle roll his eyes, and so both sisters elect to find a hiding place away from the harpy.

Thankfully, they do not have to wait for long before the Capulet house fills with people - Rosaline recognises most of them as Capulets or Montagues, even if it still feels wrong to have both families under the same roof without blood being spilled. The peace may be uncertain but it is present so far, no attack during the previous week allowing for a welcomed respite.

Rosaline is making her way to the buffet, hoping for wine and peace, when someone appears at her side. She doesn’t have to look up to recognise the now-familiar frame of Benvolio’s body or the curve of his smirk. Ever since their first dinner at the castle together, he has the habit of shadowing her when she least expects it. Rosaline rolls her eyes a lot, but it would be lying that to say she minds. There is something almost comforting about the routines Benvolio and she have established in their relationship.

“How are you on this fine evening, my love?” she asks him. She grabs two cups of wine and hands him one without even having to ask, and he accepts it gratefully, bowing his head to her when their eyes finally meet.

“As fine as can be, knowing the old Signora Moretti has already leered at me.”

Rosaline hides her snort of laughter behind her cup - badly, if Benvolio’s unimpressed look is anything to go by. She does so enjoy the fact that old widows are fond of him, as if they could convince him to spend the night warming their beds. When she told him it would be a better prospect than to marry her, his face had been so disgusted that Rosaline had choked on her own laughter for several long minutes while he sulked and glared at her.

“I have no idea what she sees in you,” she admits, only half-joking.

Benvolio rolls his eyes but leaves it at that, before offering Rosaline his arm. She sighs even as she takes it, knowing how things go from there. An evening of walking around the room and talking to everyone, playing the game of the lovesick couple Verona enjoys so much. There is nobody else to convince at this point, for they have won the hearts of all noblemen in the city, but her uncle insists on parading Rosaline around until the wedding. As long as Livia remains a maid, Rosaline knows better than to go against her uncle’s orders.

Her mind drifts off while Benvolio discusses the building of the cathedral with another man - he seems to care more about the damn thing that her uncle, and doesn’t that say a lot. She wonders how much longer before she can slip out of the ballroom and back to her quarters. She could do with one more hour of sleep or two, especially if she is to wake early and visit Friar Lawrence tomorrow as she and Benvolio have planned.

“Are we boring you, fair Rosaline?”

Rosaline startles a little, and the urge to reply with the affirmative is strong. Thankfully, she regains her wits soon enough for the words not to escape her, and she forces a polite smile on her lips instead. “Not at all. It was an excited day of wedding preparation, but I’m afraid it left me exhausted.”

The smile Livia had made fun of curls up Benvolio’s lips at the mention of the wedding, and Rosaline can’t help but be aware of it, now that her sister has pointed it out. It does make his face look funny, truth be told. Like he is trying too hard to be someone he is not.

Benvolio may notice her staring, for he raises an eyebrow at her. She shakes her head slightly in response, and they both focus back on the conversation her wandering mind interrupted.

One conversation leads to another, and another one after that, until Rosaline’s feet burn at having to stand up for too long. She tugs on Benvolio's hand until he follows her to a corner of the room where she can plop into a chair to take a much-needed break. Awareness that Benvolio could have kept socialising creeps at the corners of her mind, but she brushes it off with ease. After all, doesn't that make for a charming tableau, the Montague kneeling in front of his Capulet betrothed to take care of her aching feet?

And, as a matter of fact, Benvolio brushes his hand against her knee while she toes off the dreadful shoes, a look of concern in his eyes when he looks at her. Rosaline refuses to dwell on it for too long, but that's without counting on his stubbornness to corner her into uncomfortable situations.

“Are you alright?” he asks, too caring for his own good. 

“I am. I was not lying about the wedding preparations. My aunt kept me running around all day long.”

That is one way to say it. A lot of yelling was involved, alongside the running around, and many a bitter remark was made about not being able to plan for Juliet’s wedding to Paris. As if Rosaline was somehow responsible for her cousin’s eloping and tragic fate. Knowing her aunt, she probably thinks as such. 

“She asks too much of you,” Benvolio replies. An understatement. “Thankfully you will soon be out of her reach.”

Whether he means the impending ceremony or the nunnery, Rosaline knows not. But he seems certain, either way, that her aunt will no longer be able to abuse her, and that makes for a small relief. She wishes she had his confidence, but her thoughts are plagued with visions of what will happen to Livia once she has left the Capulet house, filling her stomach with dread. Benvolio might be kind to her in public, still Rosaline can’t find the courage to ask him to pay for Livia’s bride price if Paris changes his mind after all. The fear of rejection is too strong.

He is still kneeling in front of her, as if about to say something, when her uncle appears at their side. Rosaline makes for standing up, but Benvolio applies some pressure on her knee, a silent demand for her to stay sitting, and she finds herself complying, dumbfound by her own obedience. Even more dumbfound by the way Benvolio doesn’t stand either, instead shifting on his heels to look up to her uncle with a smile that would look polite to anyone else, but that also reeks of hypocrisy.

“Good evening, my lord,” Benvolio greets the man, voice like honey covering a sharp knife. “I am afraid our duties as a parading couple came to a dreadful end.”

Rosaline hides her smirk behind a grimace as she kicks one of her shoes further away from her as if to prove a point. Her uncle looks unimpressed, as was to be expected, raising an eyebrow at her antics but not commenting any further. Once upon a time, he was a good man - sneaking sweets to Juliet, Livia and her when they were having tea and telling them jokes that made them gasp. Sometimes, Rosaline wonders what happened to that man. Sometimes, she remembers her aunt kills everything she touches.

As a matter for fact, Lord Capulet sighs loudly, before he replies, “I do believe today was a lot of emotions for one lady. Lord Montague, would you be so kind as to escort my niece outside? Surely she will find the gardens more peaceful.”

It doesn’t take a genius to see through her uncle’s game, but Rosaline puts it aside. If he wants them to have a nice moment outside, away from prying eyes and loud whispers while pretending to be lovesick young people seeking a romantic moment, then so be it. As long as it is less dreadful than the terrible picnic, it suits Rosaline well enough.

Benvolio nods at her silently, as if agreeing with her thoughts, before he stands up. Rosaline is about to do the same when he catches her by surprise with one arm beneath her knees and one around her shoulders. She squeaks loudly enough to turn a few heads, her arms wrapping around his neck not to lose her balance and fall.

“What are you doing?” she whispers furiously into his ear, her nose brushing against his jaw in the process. She may imagine the shiver running down his body, but the grin on his lips is real.

“Taking care of my beloved, of course. What gentleman would let a lady walk, when her feet hurt her so?”

Her uncle shakes his head at the scene but doesn’t object, his way of approving of the public display, and so Rosaline forces herself to play along too. For Livia, she forces herself to play, giggling like a fool and dropping a kiss to Benvolio’s cheek. Another squeak escapes her when he starts walking, but he is thankfully fast enough that it only takes them a few seconds to leave the ballroom and find the gardens. A few seconds filled with whispers and laughter from the other guests, which may have been the point all along.

Benvolio doesn’t unceremoniously drops her the moment they are away from prying eyes, waiting to find a bench for her to sit. She shakes her limbs a little when her feet touch the ground once more, as if willing her body to forget the way it melted against his, as if willing her nose to no longer be overwhelmed by his scent. 

“Alone at last,” he says as he sits next to her on the bench, making her roll her eyes at the implication behind his words.

Once, Romeo had come to those same gardens to court her. She had sent him away with many an unkind word about Montague boys, before her cousins saw him and decided to have him dead. To her, he’d only looked like the foolish boy he was, too young to truly know anything about love or courting, with his wide eyes and his heart too easily given. She sometimes wonders if he did the same thing to Juliet, with kind smiles and a few lines of poetry. Her cousin always was a romantic; surely she was charmed by Romeo’s act, charmed enough to defy both families for him.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if…” she starts, unable to finish her question.

“If we hadn’t invited ourselves to your party?” Benvolio finishes for her. Rosaline nods, and he sighs. “Every waking hour of every day. He came for you that night, still heartbroken over your rejection. I hated you so much at first. If you had accepted his courtship, if you had…”

“If I had loved him, Juliet would still be alive.” They both remain silent, imagining what the future would have been. Would she die for Romeo? Surely not, for she barely knew him, let alone loved him. He was but a boy, in love with the concept of love more than he was with her. “Do you still hate me for it?”

She doesn’t know why it matters, for surely Benvolio has many more reasons to despise her, as she does he. But he offers her a sideway glance, as if seeing her for the first time, before he goes back to looking at the stars above them. Only the sound of the music inside reaches them, quiet and comforting, before he replies softly, “I don’t think I hate you anymore, Capulet.”

It takes Rosaline a moment to organise her thoughts and understand. She has to admit that every reason was good enough to hate him at first, from his name to his nightly habits to the way he walks. But that was before the long afternoons scheming together, and the dinners spent whispering mean remarks about other guests into each other’s ear. That was before the common understanding, and supporting the other through grieving. That was before she stopped seeing him as the Montague, and started seeing him as Benvolio. An ally, if not a friend.

“I don’t think I hate you either, Montague.”

He smiles at her, the real smile with dimples in his cheeks and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and Rosaline finds herself easing into the conversation, into that moment of peace they stole from themselves. It comes more naturally from there, to discuss what will come next in their scheme, to decide what they will say to Friar Lawrence come morning. Benvolio gives as much as he takes, challenging her thinking and giving ideas of his own, until they create a plan for the day to come, until they know where to go from there.

She isn’t sure how long has passed when Livia comes and finds them, but the music is dying down and Livia is staring at Benvolio like one would a cockroach. She barely hides her disgust, before she focuses back on Rosaline. “People are bidding their goodbyes, and so should he,” she tells Rosaline with a nod toward Benvolio.

Thankfully, Benvolio never takes affront in Livia’s attitude toward him. Instead, he stands up and takes Rosaline’s hand to help her to her feet. He doesn’t let go at first, not before he lean forward and kiss the back of her hand - all the while winking at her, as if sharing some kind of private joke that has her cheeks a little warmer than before.

“I will see you in the morrow, fair Rosaline.”

He still doesn’t let go as he walks away, fingers trailing along the skin of her palm and making her smile. There is no point in pretending in front of Livia, of course, but Rosaline doesn’t mind his antics, for it makes him more tolerable than his sulking self. He disappears around a bush of roses, leaving both Capulet ladies in the empty gardens, and leaving Livia to stare at Rosaline as if she just lost her mind.

“Do you love him?” she accuses.

Rosaline laughs. “Of course not!”

Livia doesn’t stop her staring, as if doubting her sister’s words. Not that Rosaline will blame her for it, when she lied to her so many times before; for her own protection, of course, even if Livia doesn’t see it that way. The youngest Capulet then tilts her head to the side, a slight pout on her lips.

“You should tell him, then. Because that is not pretending on his part anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't keep Rosaline up at night per se, but the thought lingers on her mind until comes morrow, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She tries to distract herself from it when she wakes up, reading a book through breakfast and keeping her mind elsewhere, but Benvolio is to arrive early and there is only so much Rosaline can do before her thoughts wander back to him. It, of course, gets even worse when Benvolio knocks on their door.

The excuse is a well-rounded one, that of visiting Friar Lawrence for details about the wedding ceremony, and so her uncle doesn’t bat an eyelash when Benvolio asks for Rosaline to join him for the morning. She would even bask in the perfection of the scheming, were it not for the way she analyses his every movement a little too much.

There is no pretending in front of Friar Lawrence, for he knows the marriage not to be a loving one. Still, Benvolio stands closer to Rosaline than he would have only a few weeks before. He glances her way every so often, and it unnerves her until she wants to scream - about that, and how his fingers keep playing with the fabric of her skirt. She doesn’t think he knows he does it, which makes matter even worse. This casual familiarity he has around her, this nonchalance when it comes to playing his part.

It is only when he escorts her back to the carriage, after a long but unfruitful conversation with the clergyman, that Benvolio comments on her behaviour. “Is something the matter?” he asks, stopping her with a hand around her wrist.

Rosaline forces herself not to jerk back at the warmth of his fingers, or at the concern in his blue eyes. She was indeed uncharacteristically silent during their meeting with Friar Lawrence, and it could surprise more than one person. That it concerns Benvolio, on the other hand, is most bothersome. She doesn’t want his worry, or his questions, because they come from a place of caring, and Livia’s words keep dancing in her mind.

“I am tired, is all,” she lies effortlessly. “He was hiding something, was he not?”

Thankfully, her question is enough to distract Benvolio, and things are a little easier from there. That, the thinking and the plotting and the scheming together, Rosaline can handle. That is something she can go through without fear of what to come next, without dread for Benvolio’s actions and words. They agree to share a light meal together in the Montague gardens, close enough to a chaperon not to get Rosaline into trouble but isolated enough to speak their mind without spies around them.

Benvolio accompanies her back home after lunch, kissing the back of her hand softly before he disappears around a corner. Rosaline lets him go, staring at the street in front of her but not truly seeing it. Her mind starts racing again, going through and analysing every detail of the day, every interaction, every brush of his fingers against her hand.

She sighs and gives up, only to groan her frustration when she enters her room and finds Livia sitting on her bed. Her sister looks up at the sound, questions in her eyes to which Rosaline only replies, “This is all your fault.”

Livia’s smirk has no right to be this wicked.

 

…

 

Rosaline is certain her uncle loves to see her suffering, for he organises yet another outing the following day and dismisses any complain she has on the matter. Rosaline still tries to make a case for herself, if only because the previous night was too hot for her to sleep comfortably and she would enjoy one day of peace and quiet, but there is little to be done against her uncle’s stubbornness. So Benvolio arrives at the house after lunch and, along with a couple of guards and the nurse as a chaperon, invites her to the local market.

She wishes Livia were with them, if only because she has an habit of forcing Benvolio to buy the most ridiculous and useless trinkets for her, which is entertaining enough. She still despises Benvolio, even more so than Rosaline does at this point, but Livia has always been one to use new opportunities to her advantages. Especially when those opportunities present themselves as Montague golden coins.

But Livia is otherwise busy with answering to their aunt’s every whims today, and so Rosaline has no other choice but to put her hand on the elbow Benvolio offers and to follow him outside the house. It is a hot summer afternoon, and so they keep to the shadows of the streets on their way to the market, neither of them bothering with conversation. Rosaline forces herself not to analyse this too closely once more, and instead dresses a list of things she needs buying. She would very much like a new pair of earrings for the wedding ceremony, and perhaps even a necklace for Livia. She also needs fabric for a dress, though she does not particularly look forward to wearing it.

“You are quiet once more, my love.”

Rosaline swallows down the groan that threatens to escape her mouth at his words, and instead plasters a smile on her lips. “I thought you liked me better submissive, my lord.”

It isn’t fair on him, she knows, even more so when he sucks in a breath at her words. He has never done anything to repress the fire within her, nor shown annoyance at her temper. If anything else, he might as well be the first man to enjoy it, and to even be amused by her bouts of passion, instead of judging her lack of manners.

Benvolio slows down then, just enough for Rosaline to look up at him and see the seriousness in his eyes. “I like you as you are, fair Rosaline,” he tells her, poorly hiding the hurt in his voice. “Be not afraid to be opinionated to your heart’s content.”

There is too much truth to his word, for he indeed likes her, and that frightens Rosaline more than she would like. She finds herself self-conscious of her every action once more, forcing a smile on her lips before she pulls on his arm to start walking again. Still, her body sways closer to his with each step they take, even more so when they leave the empty street and walk into the crowded market place. This seems to please him, if the smile ghosting his lips is anything to go by, and Rosaline wonders if he would be so bold as to wrap an arm around her waist and keep her close, were it not against all rules of decency.

As it is, he only follows her around from stall to stall, grinning every time her fingers caress a particularly beautiful necklace, every time she raises an earring to the side of her face and ask for his opinion. He may be a man, but Benvolio also is an artist, his tastes more refined that she would have thought from a Montague. Rosaline has no doubt that he would not let her buy something unflattering, even more so when he is the one paying.

She is comparing two pieces of fabric - one the Capulet blue, another one a more neutral beige - when Benvolio stands straighter by her side, his body turning stiff and awkward in an instant. Rosaline doesn’t have time to ask what the matter is, for his unusual behaviour is followed by a, “Greetings, dear aunt,” that has her breath catching in her throat.

Rosaline knows very little of the inner politics of the Montague clan, but she is no fool. Lady Tessa Montague is even more ruthless than her brother, and cares as very little about Benvolio. The reasons as to why everyone seems to despise the younger Montague are still a mystery to Rosaline, and an unfair one at that - as far as she can tell, he always was the scapegoat of the family, even as a child. How anyone could act in such a way with their own blood, Rosaline has no idea - at least her lady aunt has her reasons, no matter how biased.

“Greetings, nephew. Capulet.”

Rosaline takes a deep breath before she turns around, not even bothering with hiding her sarcastic smile. Some battles are worse fighting for, and making it clear that she despises the older woman is a hill upon which Rosaline is willing to die. “Greetings, m’lady,” she replies, messing the title on purpose with just enough of a servant’s accent to make the other woman squirm. “I was just telling Benvolio how lovely this colour look on him, wouldn’t you agree?”

She barely glances back at the stall of fabrics as she grabs one scarf, a vibrant blue piece, and turns around to wrap it around Benvolio’s neck. His eyes are a little wider than usual, even more so when he too notices the colour, before a smile settles on his lips once more. He even lets her tug on the ends of the scarf, as to pull his face closer to her, so only she can hear his little snort of laughter when she winks at him.

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Tessa replies, and Rosaline doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to hear the irritation in her voice, as if the lady had just swallowed a particularly bitter lemon. “Though I am always partial to crimson fabrics myself.”

“Oh no, m’lady,” Rosaline goes on, tugging on the scarf once more. “The blue of the fabric only brings up that of his eyes. We wouldn’t want the magenta to hinder his features.”

“Magenta is pink,” he whispers to her in a breath as to not be heard by his aunt. Rosaline can only reply with a snort of her own as the silliness of the situation, for of course he would know every shade of colour that exists. And then, to his aunt, “Who am I to deny my beloved the chance to gaze into my eyes at her leisure?”

Maybe they are taking it one step too far this time, but it is worth the grimace on Lady Tessa’s face as she battles not to say anything rude in public. It is only a matter of minutes after this until she bids her goodbyes and tells her nephew she will see him at home, before she gathers her skirts and leaves them. Rosaline lets out a breath of relief that Benvolio mirrors, his turning into a chuckle when she pulls at the scarf and it slides off his neck.

“That was interesting,” is his only comment as he hands a few coins to the seller.

It takes Rosaline a few moments to notice his gesture, and by that time he is already draping the scarf around her shoulders and smiling proudly to himself. “Though I have no doubt it does wonders to my eyes, blue is your colour.”

How he always manages to buy her things before she can stop him, Rosaline has no idea. She complains mildly, even if it is no use, before she follows him to another stall. It is yet another hour of wandering before she buys something for Livia and they agree that it is enough socialising for one day. 

The way back to the House Capulet is not as silent, for they keep discussing one particular marchant they met on the market place, selling instruments neither of them had ever seen before. Rosaline admits to taking singing lessons when she was younger, but her voice could never compete with Juliet’s skills. Benvolio narrates one particularly colourful night in a tavern that had involved way too many tankards of beer and Mercutio losing his voice for an entire week, much to the dismay of both Montague boys.

As it turns out, talking to Benvolio is not as impossible as Rosaline would have liked to think. He is charming and amusing, and has a talent with words that turns any story into an epic tale of friendship and loyalty, until Rosaline finds herself mourning men she never met.

Before she knows it, they are back where they started, her uncle greeting them in the entrance hall even though he looks like he would rather be anywhere but here. Benvolio bows to him, ever the proper and respectful gentleman, before he delicately takes Rosaline’s hand in his own. He bows to her too, and she startles at his lips grazing against the back of her hand in a barely-there kiss that leaves her skin tingling even after he lets go of her.

“It was a pleasure spending time with you, as always.”

His words are polite and proper, but the gleam in his eyes speaks of more than a simple outing - amusement and companionship, jokes at his aunt’s expense shared in a whisper. And when Rosaline mirrors it with a, “The pleasure was all mine, dear betrothed,” of her own, it is with sincerity in her words and in the slope of her smile.

Benvolio stares at her for a few moments longer, tilting his head to the side as if to truly see her for the first time. A shiver runs down her spine, for this look speaks more than a thousand words, and for she is afraid of what will come out of it.

 

…

 

Rosaline is only left wondering for a few hours, for the sun is not quite set yet when pebbles are thrown at her window and dread fills her stomach. She slips out of bed and into a dressing gown, caring very little about her state of disarray as she walks toward the balcony. The warm summer wind caresses her cheeks when she opens the window, but she cannot blame the weather on the layer of sweat between her shoulderblades at the sight of Benvolio looking up at her from the gardens.

He smiles, tentative and charming, and it makes Rosaline want to scream. “What are you doing here?” she hisses instead. “If my cousins find you, you’re a dead man.”

Which would resolve many of her problems, though Rosaline has no doubt Escalus would simply marry her off to the next Montague in the line of succession. They care very little about her, but just enough to make sure she will produce an heir for both families. A dead Benvolio would be of no help to her, and she would only be wed to a man she tolerate even less.

“I needed to see you.”

She winces, and curses him under her breath. “You will see me come morrow, Montague. Go home already.”

Benvolio, of course, doesn’t listen to her. Instead, he decides to favour his cousin’s flair for dramatic gestures of affection, moving closer to the house as to grab the vine that runs down the outer walls. No small amount of protesting makes him stop until, with laboured breaths and a smirk, he hauls himself up and over the railing of her balcony. His feet are loud when they land on the floor, panic rising within Rosaline as she grabs his arm and pulls him closer to the window as to be hidden by the heavy curtains.

“Do you have a death wish?” she whispers at him. “My family has killed yours for less than that.”

And they both know it. For a Montague man to be found in the bedroom of a Capulet maiden, would be the worst of offenses, worthy of death in a matter of minutes. No one in her family would care much about their betrothal, when her reputation is at play. She knows Montagues to be careless, but she expected Benvolio to be more level-headed than this.

Alas, there is nothing much to be done about fools in love.

For a fool Benvolio is, his eyes shining in the moonlight and his lips stretched into a lazy yet endearing smile. He moves closer to her, until she forgets about her uncle and cousins, until she forgets about her reputation, until she forgets about everything but the warmth of his breath against her mouth and the adoring way he looks at her. Perhaps it is how Romeo had Juliet falling so deeply and so fast for him - with easy charms and a smile, with this way of making you feel like you are the only one in the world and no other woman matters. And perhaps it would work on Rosaline too, were the situation different. In another life, another time.

“I needed to see you,” he says once more. “I would suffer a hundred deaths by a hundred Capulets, if it meant a few more minutes by your side.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and Rosaline dreads what is to come, what she will do in but a few moments. She is not a cruel woman, but his actions and words call for cruel repercussions that she can no longer avoid.

“Benvolio…”

He grabs her hand, the delicacy of his touch a sharp contrast to the hard calluses on his fingers, and Rosaline forgets to breathe. She knows what is to come, and yet she is hardly prepared for his lips on hers, for the chaste kiss he offers. A shiver runs down her spine before Rosaline finds her wits again and, with her hands on his chest, pushes him away.

He blinks at her, confused, before his eyes harden as the gravity of her actions settles down. Benvolio is at lost for words, long enough for Rosaline to breathe a simple, “Don’t.” that breaks her heart as much as it does his.

“I don’t understand,” is his only reply at first. Rosaline doesn’t know what to say to this - doesn’t even know if there is anything to be said at all. “I thought…”

“You thought wrong, Montague.”

His mouth opens in disbelief, yet no words come out of it. She reads the storm of betrayal in his blue eyes as he takes a step back, her hand slipping away from his grasp until it falls back at her side. Rosaline braces herself for the fight to come, for the explanations she could have done without.

“All along… You were only pretending.”

“ _ Yes _ . You knew it. You agreed to it,” she reminds him, in a voice she hopes to be kind. She thinks back on their interactions, ever since they agreed to the wedding and started putting on the act, and wonders where exactly she became a much better actress than she thought to be. For surely she believed that she only fooled people into seeing what they wanted to see, that the lies only worked because people were willing to think them in love. Perhaps she was wrong, and offered a much better show than she thought. Perhaps Benvolio took her sarcasm for something else entirely.

“You were convincing,” Benvolio replies, unable to hide the hurt in his voice. “Even more so than you give yourself credit for. You should take pride in this.”

“Do not put the blame on me!” She lets out a puff of breath, willing herself to calm down even as anger rises within her. “Do not act like I was misleading you, when you knew from the very start that this was all an act!”

“Have your feelings toward me not changed during the weeks spent together?”

“Changed, yes. I hated you, and I no longer do. But we both knew this wedding to be a loveless one, and it is but your own fault if you were led to believe otherwise!”

Benvolio turns his head, avoiding her gaze. She wants to lash out at him, wants to tell him how unfair it is to expect so much of her when she can only give so little. She wants to blame him for everything, for putting her into this situation, for forcing his feelings on her. She wants to fight him, until she stops feeling guilty for not loving him back. She wants this, and so much more, but finds herself losing her momentum when Benvolio sniffs pitifully.

There is no ignoring the lone tear rolling down his cheek, nor the way her own stomach twists painfully. For it is not his fault, nor hers, if he loves her yet she can’t return his feelings. Rosaline reaches for his hand, willing to apologize - for her crude words, if not for matters of her heart, but he snatches his hand away before her fingers graze his skin.

“I do apologise for the mistake, my lady,” he tells her, stiff and serious. “And for the discomfort it may have caused you. I will do my best to leave you to your own devises from now on.”

“Benvolio…”

“I shall see you again during our next public outing.”

She wants to protest, but it wouldn’t be fair on him, on either of them. Better let him lick his wounds in peace, instead of making it worse with hollow promises and empty words of comfort. So, even though Rosaline has so much more to say, she lets Benvolio go down the vine, lets him disappear into the shadows of the garden, until she is left staring at a bush of roses, and then at the stars.

She doesn’t know how long she remains like this, minutes or hours, glaring at the moon as if it is the cause of all her troubles. The night is warm yet she shivers when Livia enters the room and calls her name, and it is only when her sister gasps that Rosaline notices the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, the broken pieces of her own heart that no embrace from Livia can mend.


End file.
